


Quadrille

by livia_1291



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AusSwiss, Dancing, Ficlet, Hetalia, How Do I Tag, I SWEAR I DON'T EVEN LIKE ANGST, Lots of sexual tension, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oops, Short, Too many tricolons, and all those other names, angsty, aph, aph austria - Freeform, aph hungary - Freeform, aph prussia - Freeform, aph switzerland - Freeform, edelweiss, pruhun if you squint, sorry - Freeform, swissaus - Freeform, swisstria, they dance the quadrille
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 01:29:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16822387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livia_1291/pseuds/livia_1291
Summary: Switzerland and Austria dance the quadrille together in the early 1800's. As usual, there's lots of mutual pining and tension.





	Quadrille

Basch didn’t quite know why he had bothered showing up to this stupid party. The people were pretentious, the food was nearly inedible, and there wasn’t nearly enough wine to make the music bearable. The lilting sound of a string quartet was lulling him to sleep - is this what the English danced to? No wonder Arthur always seemed irritated.

It wasn’t like he was close to England anyway - he was only here because there had been a meeting. He had attended for diplomatic purposes, in hopes that someone might, for once, listen to his opinion and _leave him the fuck alone_. As per usual, nothing of substance had happened. France and England had bickered, Austria and Hungary had both looked insultingly elegant in jewels and silk, and nobody had paid any mind to him. Not that he cared. Sometimes it was easier to hang back in the shadows and do other people’s dirty work for them, to keep his head down and work and kill and bleed, until maybe someday he could relax into luxury like his neighbors, and enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Being abroad was a different kind of work, one that required a carefully constructed façade. Everything in diplomacy was a game, a dance, a push and pull. Basch hated it. It was fake, all illusions and smoke and mirrors. What was the point of dancing for hours before a meeting, like you were planning on courting instead of trying to convince them to withdraw their troops from your Eastern borders? _Worthless._

“You seem less than pleased to be here,” came a lilting voice off to his left. Switzerland whipped around sharply.

“You,” he spat. Roderich gave him a wry smile, holding out a glass of wine like a peace offering. Basch’s eyes narrowed mistrustfully, but he took it, careful not to let their fingers brush.

“Hello to you too. I didn’t expect to see you here.” The brunet man leaned against the wall beside him, planting himself strategically between the dance floor and the exit to the atrium so that Basch would not easily be able to evade his conversation. _Damn him._

“Yes, well, I didn’t want to be here, if you must know,” he told him, taking a long sip of the too-sweet wine in his glass. “I had nothing else to do, and I was hoping that there would be _better company_.” That was a half-truth - his ship back to mainland Europe didn’t leave until the morning, and he was stuck here, staring at the ugly damask wallpaper, and wishing he had never left the safety of his own rocky borders.

Austria hummed, pretending not to notice the venom dripping from the last two words as he adjusted the green carnation tucked elegantly into his lapel. They had known each other for centuries, had laughed, had loved, had healed each other’s wounds. He liked to think that he still knew how to diffuse Basch like he once had done, to temper the fire in his veins and dismantle the walls he so carefully erected around his heart.

“Truly, _Schweiz_ , you would have a better time if you learned to loosen up a little and have fun for once in your life.”

But childhood was fleeting, lost to the ages as soon as they had picked up swords and bows and arrows. Basch pressed his thin lips together, swirling the dregs of his wine in his glass, before tipping the rest down his throat and swallowing. “Fun doesn’t keep you alive. Not all of us have the _luxury_ of having other people to take care of us.” His hand ached for a moment, caught in the memory of shooting archery until his fingers bled, hoping to numb the pain of yet another wedding to someone that was not him. Burgundy, Spain, Hungary… How was it fair that Roderich got to marry his problems away, while he was embroiled in constant heartache and war?

 _Ouch._ Perhaps Roderich had been wrong. Those words stung, and the brunet’s lip curled into a sneer. Oh, he would get him for that, leave him shocked and stuttering and _breathless_. Surely Basch didn’t think this was all one-sided? Austria would make him play _his_ game, a game of mystery and uncertainty and half-stolen touches. _Pine for me, like I pine for you._

“Dance with me.” It was not a request. It was a husky demand, and Basch startled at the feeling of slender fingers curling around his wrist. The Swiss wrinkled his nose in distaste, glaring up at Roderich with scorching eyes, as if he was trying to burn holes into that perfect ivory skin.

“Fine.”

“You _can_ dance the Quadrille, can’t you?” Roderich asked as he pulled him to the dance floor, where they took their place among four other couples, all aglow with affection and flushed with wine. There was something smug in Austria’s voice, something that made Basch bristle.

“Of course I can,” he snapped, resting his hand onto the dark wool fabric of Roderich’s tailcoat. It scratched and chafed at his palms, and he held just a little tighter than necessary, hoping to make the brunet uncomfortable. _This is what you do to me,_ he thought.

“Ah, so you are more cultured than I thought,” Roderich mused, a coy smirk on his lips. They had once danced like only children could, simply and purely, under a sky glowing silver with moonlight, but now, dances were games, designed to woo and tease. As rewarding as it could be to diffuse him, it was fun to nettle Switzerland sometimes, to work him up until he blustered and huffed like a thunderstorm, but never struck. All bark, no bite. That wasn’t, of course, to say that sometimes the bark didn’t hurt just as much as the bite would have - when Basch had pure anger coursing through his veins, he could be flat-out _cruel_. Roderich wasn’t sure he could blame him; the man had been through a lot in the past three centuries. It would make anyone defensive. Still, sometimes he wondered if Basch ever regretted anything he said. _Probably not_ , he thought bitterly, _he always hits his mark._

The Austrian was drawn from his increasingly tumultuous thoughts by the sound of bows being drawn across strings. A quartet in the corner of the room began their song, sending warm notes mingling with the luminous laughter from chattering crowds around them. He swept his partner close, giving him a smile, and beginning their dance.

Was that Tchaikovsky? Basch could hardly tell. All of his attention was locked on the maddeningly beautiful man holding his waist and hand.

“Don’t you have your _wife_ to dance with?” He hissed, falling into tense step with his dance partner. While Basch undoubtedly had the upper hand on the battlefield, this was Roderich’s territory. He was graceful and eloquent where Basch was not, moving with ease in social circles, and playing political games like they were mere chess matches. Switzerland found such pastimes disgusting and manipulative, though the source of his distaste might have been his lack of skill in such things.

“She’s talking with Belgium. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous of her, _Schatzi_. You’ve been watching us all night,” Austria cooed, soft and low as the music. There was something in his eyes that made Basch’s heart flip in his chest. _No. Stop that, he’s not yours. You don’t want him,_ he told himself, feeling his cheeks heat up to a soft rose color.

“Jealous?” Basch spat, hair flickering like golden flames as he turned in the dance, cold verdigris eyes never leaving Roderich’s. “Why in God’s name would I be jealous of her? She has to put up with _you_ day and night. I would rather _die_. And don’t you dare call me Schatzi. I am not your treasure.” Boots clicked on the floor as they clasped each other’s hands, weaving in and out of reach, dancing their own story over and over again.

Roderich clicked his tongue, letting the words roll off his back this time. He was in his element here - Basch was playing his game now, and he had nothing to fear. Nothing the other man said could affect him now - he would not allow it. Politics were a dance, but so was romance, and Roderich was a master.

“Are you sure?” He inquired, circling him gracefully and lifting his arm so that his partner could duck under it. Switzerland sneered when he came back up.

“Of course I am sure. I am not jealous.” His response was cool, but Roderich could not help but notice the hot flush burning at his ears. He took his hand again, guiding him in a wide circle. _Now._

“Why do you keep turning me away, _Lieberli_?”

“Because you are _married_.” The words were a caustic hiss, but green eyes glittered bright, full of broken glass. Guilt flooded Roderich’s chest immediately, tightening around his heart. Now he saw why Basch put up barriers around his own. _His fault._

“I’m sorry. She is, too,” he murmured, glancing over Basch’s shoulder to see his wife laughing with a silver-haired Prussian who was fanning himself daintily with her lace fan and revelling in her smile.

He fell silent for the rest of the dance, mulling over what he had just done. That had been too far. Of course, he knew of Basch’s feelings for him, the blond never had been very good at keeping his emotions in check. It was amusing, sometimes, to see him angry over the smallest of things. Surely there was no harm in that. But playing with Switzerland’s heart, like a cat with a mouse? What had become of him?

Basch was relieved when the music slowed - he could hardly bear to keep touching Roderich. It hurt, like each time they brushed, he was setting himself ablaze. Quickly, he stepped back, and immediately dropped into a bow. The blond’s gaze was frigid, trying to quench the burning fire inside of him. _Break my heart again, will you?_

But there was nothing bitter or cruel in Roderich’s gaze. Not anymore. Gently, the Austrian took his hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of his palm: an apology _._

“Good night, _Schweiz_.”

Basch drew away, inhaling sharply and cradling his palm to his chest as though Roderich had just driven a nail through it. Breathless, he turned to hurry out, away from this sweet agony, but paused in his step halfway to the atrium. Almost reluctantly, he looked over his shoulder, voice soft and hoarse with something Austria could not put his finger on. “Good night. Thanks for the dance. Maybe we could… do it again sometime.”

The last four words came in such a breathless rush, Roderich almost wondered if they hadn’t been spoken at all. Perhaps he had just imagined them in the dull roar of the crowd. By the time he had opened his mouth to respond, Switzerland was gone into the night, leaving a lingering warmth in Austria’s hands, and an empty space in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Me, 3 days a year: Write all the things!  
> Me, 362 days a year: I used to write stuff once.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this angsty little ficlet! Swissaus is my OTP and one day I will write pure fluff for them, I promise. Shoutout to the ever-patient Bianca for editing and beta'ing for me! Here are some translations.
> 
> (die) Schweiz - Switzerland  
> Lieberli - southern diminutive pet name. Love, darling.  
> Schatzi - diminutive of Schatz, literally meaning treasure, more like sweetheart.
> 
> I like diminutives, sue me.


End file.
